Most places in the world, we sailors can not wait for the summer to begin, bringing warm breezes and long days, ingredients for splendid sailing. Where I sail though, we can’t wait for the summer to wane.

With October here, the weather I have yearned for can finally be glimpsed around the calendar’s corner — it will be less than 110 degrees Fahrenheit every day until May. That is no shock to the majority of folks in the northern hemisphere. The surprise comes in the fact, the average temperatures in the desert, where I sail, will stand around 65 to 75 throughout the fall and winter. No blizzards, no ice on the lake, no bone chilling days are anticipated near Phoenix.

Even though the highs still hovered around 100 degrees last weekend, I could wait no longer. I went sailing Friday night with Linda. We leisurely skimmed on Orange Crush across the black water, ate dinner with a group at a new waterfront restaurant then sailed back. Saturday and Sunday I raced in Arizona Yacht Club’s fall racing series. Three times out definitely marks the beginning of my sailing season.

All three outings were on boats owned and sailed by women. This is rare. I don’t know why, but it’s men who usually get the “family” boat, then take charge of it — occasionally naming it after a wife, a gesture to infer the womenfolk are a part of the boating equation.

Ed found our boat Bliss. A Santana 23, she was in line with what he wanted. We traveled to San Diego to get a look at her — he insisted I come. When I saw her I was not smitten. She looked short, squat and retro. Sort of like me, but dusty and needing a bath. Maybe that is why Ed immediately loved her, not that she was dirty but that she looked like me. He negotiated the deal while I wandered the yard and looked at other sleeker, shinier boats I would rather take home. He insisted I write the check so I would “have skin in the game,” and cause to feel Bliss would be my boat too. He saw something I did not understand — Bliss would be as much mine as she would be his.

The phenomenon, of men owning the boats and thus owning sailing, was illustrated when I looked over the Arizona Yacht Club’s Fall Racing Series skipper list. “Gordon, Steve, Jim, Greg, Charles, Gene, Bill, Mike, Lafe, Joe, Peter…” 34 skippers with only one woman’s name, Dianna, my friend. She invited me to crew on her new cute Santana 20, Hot Flash. Though I’m not a racer, I accepted. I wanted to get a better look at racing and to compare the Santana 20 to Bliss. And of course, it was a chance to go sailing. After giving it a whirl, why there are so many more men than women racing is even more of a mystery. Yes, it was a bit physical, but it did not seem to be a man’s game. As a matter of fact, the men on the race course encouraged us. They were tickled to see a boat full of gals impudently chasing them. It reminded me of the third grade, when the same sort of thing began to happen — girls chasing boys without much of a chance of catching them. Hot Flash didn’t come close to winning any of the seven races, but with each race, the women aboard discovered more about the new boat, the sport and sailing, and we went a bit faster.

I hope with time and practice the tables will turn, as they did around fifth grade. In a few seasons the guys may get a kick out of chasing a boatload of women around the lake.

Mexican Train

Miguel’s phone walks across the storage chest, buzzing like an over-sized beetle. Cook extracts himself from the galley, grabs the phone and pretends to toss it out the open hatch. We cheer as he follows Randy’s earlier remedy—flips the phone open, then shut—to quiet the frenetic buzz.

Amí is still not feeling well enough to join us for dinner and takes her plate dotted with a few bites to the deck to dine in the fresh air. Only Amí is still seasick, apparently not so much she can not read. She uses her heavy hard cover copy of Cryptonomicon as a tray. Elenore loads her dish and stands alone at the nav station to eat. I’ve yet to see her sit, for any reason except to put on socks.

Five men, Margarete and I squeeze around the large salon table intended for six. Three men compress onto the storage chest against the bulkhead, heavily laden plates balanced on their unmanly held-together knees. Late comers Conrad and John, the old Brit Berkley professor, stand and eat at the counter like bachelors.

It’s the first time so many of us have dined together. None of us need be on deck, except Amí who has anchor watch. It is by far the best meal we have had on the trip. We laugh, tell jokes and stuff ourselves continuing our toasts, even though our dole of wine is gone. We toast the sea and the wind, tossing our heads back and tipping our empty glasses, hovering them above our bird-like mouths open to catch an imaginary dribble.

Dessert is chocolate cake intended for the Coffee Bean birthday celebration. I swirl my fingers around my emptied plate to collect the tiniest chocolate morsel as Sam cranes behind the bench to fetch dominoes. Some of us—like me—have never played dominoes, let alone Mexican Train. Seven of us start up an over-crowded game. The rules seem to be, shall I say, flexible. Each person, who has played before, has personal rules. Randy is the natural arbitrator, laughingly choosing any domino dictate which clearly benefits him. The good-natured interpretations and disagreements heighten our fun. We play unfettered by hard and fast law.

The galley and salon grow muggy, even though it is cool outside, a light breeze swirling around the companionway. Our faces flush—made rosy by the wine, the heat and the mood. I feel incredibly happy.

At this moment we have a magical communal lightness—except for Elenore. Just after eating she ran to throw up over the stern. She’s allergic to wine and Cook used it for the salmon. Now that the offending fish is—let’s say “gone”—she’s fine but steaming mad Cook did not warn her. “He knew!” she spat. We joke about domino rules, scarcely looking up as she tromps through the boat, giving Cook the evil eye. I know we are too noisy for her to get the sleep she obviously needs.

After playing several games, the various Mexican Train rules blend to be a new set made solely for this day and this boat. We play and tell sea stories, scoffing at obvious lies and exaggerations and leaning into the table to steady ourselves during a recounting of a fearsome yarn. We are laughing; hooting, loudly when Miguel’s phone buzzes to life.

John pushes back, stands puffing his chest, struts to the phone, swings it in a wide arc to his ear and puts his hand on his hip. He doesn’t answer, but effeminately holds the still buzzing phone to the side of his face batting his eyelashes. We know something is coming and hold our breath. In an pinched falsetto John feigns answering, “Miguel? Si. Un momento. Miguelito, mi amor, es tu madre!”

We beg him, “Do it! Do it! Answer.” He doesn’t. He plucks out the fully charged battery and drops it into his pocket. We slap the table and roar. This game is over. We’ve sent the dominoes dancing.

EL TELEFONO

Cook has closed the bilge and is rooting through the ice chest when Margarete and I emerge from her quarters fully chocolatized. Most of the men who had taken to their bunks to sulk over the floppy dinghy and their resulting denial, are now on deck gazing longingly toward shore. A few others have gathered in the salon and sit reading, eating grapes Cook has set out. Randy, the skipper, is leaning on the threshold of his stateroom casually grasping a handhold while he talks on his cell phone. He’s grinning and cajoling, graphically retelling the tale of the “limp dink.”

After shoving off and until anchoring, phones have been used discretely — except by Miguel, the young Venezuelan, who has his palmed and glued to an ear every moment we are within range of a cell tower. It seems his girlfriend is missing him terribly, even though they chatter constantly. Still hot from recent cooing, Miguel’s phone, which is plugged in for recharging right under Randy’s hand, sings for attention. Randy looks for Miguel to scurry to answer, but he must be in the head or on deck. In a seamless wave Randy drops his hand, swoops up the phone, flicks it open and slaps it shut. Everyone in the salon giggles as the skipper theatrically touches his finger to his lips to shush us. He cranes to look up the hatch.

“Who wants to go ashore?” he asks loudly, holding his phone above his head. An immediate surround-sound, testosterone-juiced chorus of “Me!” “Me!” “Me!” circles the salon. If anyone was asleep, they aren’t now. Spencer yanks the curtain open, toddles into the salon with his hand raised, yawning, “Me too!”

Miguel bounds down the companion way, glances toward his phone and shrugs his shoulders begging a translation.

“Do you want to go ashore?”

“Si. Yes, si!” Miguel smiles as he picks up his phone to determine its status. He checks for messages and plugs it in as Randy finishes his phone conversation.

“My friend who lives here, another skipper, has a skiff he can launch. I didn’t want to impose, so I offered him $100 to water taxi for the evening. His boat can handle six. He has to drive, so five can go ashore in one trip. We should let the birthday boy go to celebrate with his little brother. Miguel, Spencer — Alex, do you want to go?”

Elenore, who looked so longingly towards shore, turns on her heel and lurches up the steps. She knows she must stay aboard and get a bit of sleep.

“Anyone else?” he looks over his shoulder incapable of ignoring the first mate’s huff. “So, it’s settled. We’re pulling anchor at midnight. Don’t miss the boat. Get your twenty bucks and be ready. He’ll be here shortly. Remember, everyone back and set to head north before 2330. No later than 11:30 or you’ll be driving up the coast!”

We nod our heads, satisfied with the arrangement and the change of mood. Cook hoists two bottles of white wine above his head and does the Rocky Balboa victory dance. “Look what I found for the rest of us,” he sings. He stops and gestures stiff arm, palm out. “For dinner,” he decrees. We hold as commanded, lick our lips and make hot tea he has set out. Cook is the master of what and when we eat or drink while on ship — except our chocolate.

Everyone gathers on deck to enjoy the lengthening shadows and scan the harbor for the shore boat’s arrival. A small aluminum skiff nears. The skipper waves and calls to Randy as he eases the throttle. As the boat skims alongside and disappears in our sheer, Miguel’s cell phone rings again. Miguel retreats to the bow to answer, looking somewhat irritated. He returns quickly, flipping his phone shut as he shrugs his shoulders. “Mi novia es crazy por me,” he apologizes.

Boarding will not be as simple as stepping from one deck to the other. We are more than six feet above the waterline. Margarete and Connor rig a rope ladder while Randy introduces his friend below. “This is Charlie. He’ll take you in and bring you back. Call him a half hour before you’re ready or just show up where he drops you at 11. People fall in using these ladders so be careful. If you have anything you don’t want to get wet, leave it or we can hand it down once you board. Miguel, give me your phone,” instructs Randy as the men cue up at the ladder.

The five have primped, slicked their hair, put on travel clothes. They smell strongly of baby wipes and cologne. One by one they lower themselves to the launch and speed away. We watch until they cut behind a jut of docks and Cook has called us to dinner. Randy pulls Miguel’s cell phone from his pocket, plugs it in and turns to serve himself salmon, rice and a green salad. Cook pours wine into small plastic juice glasses and passes them to the table.

“To the birthday boy,” offers Randy. “And the skipper,” adds Ed. “…and the crew.” Smiling, we raise our glasses to toast. Miguel’s phone vibrates loudly.

CHOCOLATE

As soon as we set anchor the boat settles as if the keel was set firmly in bedrock. The sun warms the decks and all manner of clouds dissipate. To the northwest the whipped sea is merely a dark ribbon of contrast below the gray sky.

The dinghy, which for the past two days hung flaccidly from the stern, suddenly becomes an object of serious attention. It is wrestled to the deck by the Coffeebean Brothers, Margarete the engineer and Elenore. The older Bean brother, Michael, is marking a milestone birthday and a trip ashore will ensure a proper celebration. As they lay the craft on deck the younger of the Beans glances over his shoulder as if he expects the coast to disappear. Four mates toil, the men stripping off fleece a layer at a time. Taking turns on a foot pump they work feverishly to revive the boat. Although the resuscitation attempt is intense, the launch refuses the inflation. Soon the entire crew has circled the craft with hands hanging slack at their sides. The little boat is a goner. There’s nothing anyone can do but stand silent and regard its passing. Finally someone asks, “Is there a water taxi? A shoreboat?”

You see, our voyage is dry.

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I painted my retired (white) running shoes black so I would not have to buy new ones to go with my Coast Guard Aux summer ODU (Operational Dress Uniform).*

Black is black

The Coast Guard Auxiliary is all about regulations — many of them aimed at herding cats, like me, into wearing a proper uniform. To complicate compliance, rules change with a regularity that sets those slow to adapt or resisters, like me, almost constantly out of sync. I have not been on patrol for quite a long stint and during my hiatus I have ignored the details, as well as the broad uniform rule changes. I confirmed last last week the summer ODU (Operational Dress Uniform) required black athletic shoes which I didn’t have.

So here I go. Read more

ROLLER COASTER

We are near Santa Cruz as my watch ends and it is decided we will wait out rough seas churning north of Point Conception. I’m both relieved and disappointed when during the sparsely attended lunch the plan to anchor is announced. I wanted the excitement of a fast night sail, but was not quite sure I would be up for it. We will stay put, rest and wait for calmer water to develop probably near midnight, the end of my next watch. Most everyone is suffering from seasickness, or from side effects of medication to prevent it. Only I, the skipper, first mate, engineer and the cook seem to be none the worse for the unsettled ride. Men not on watch snore in their bunks. I make my way forward to my cubbyhole careful not to invade their berths while reaching for a handhold. Ed is laying in his bunk with his arms folded over his pasty white face.

“Are you okay?” I ask concerned by his waxy appearance.

Read more

While the likes of Ellen MacArthur, Sharon Sites Adams, Amanda Clark and Gail Hines have contributed so much to sailing, to have a woman on the water, fully and undeniably in charge of a sailboat, is still very much out of balance with the number of women sailors. Even when I am declared skipper of the day, I am likely to defer or even relinquish my charge to Ed if the going gets rough.

For the Pancake Breakfast cruise, though, I could not be deferential. Ed would not be on the boat as he usually is, nor would he be shore-side to launch or retrieve Bliss. He was 1864.19 miles away when I told my mother I was going sailing for the weekend.

“Where?” she asked, the pitch of her voice raising an octave.

“Oh, Lake Pleasant, on Bliss.” I answered as nonchalantly as possible.

“I thought Ed was in Florida?” She paused, waiting for me to tell her she was wrong.

“So?”

“What? Are you stupid?” Read more

MORNING WATCH

As we near Point Conception, the ocean folds into a field of slippery hills, each wave piling an ever greater volume of the sea before us. I have relinquished the helm to John, clipped onto a jackline and lurched forward to cling to, and lean against, a trio of shrouds. They are arranged in a comfortable triangle, seemingly for my support while standing watch. Our impermanence is confirmed by each wave, a child of the vast communal body of water, of the same makeup but unique. They slip under my feet; under the deck; under my mates, sleeping, reading, cooking and perhaps playing Mexican Train; under our tiny dryish world. Each ridge slides under our puny mass.

For this watch, and the last, we have seen an abundance of jellies sliding past with the waves. Translucent orbs, milky with plum splashes, they wash past the hull trailing gelatinous lace. They’re a staple for Mola mola, a fish I would love to see. Read more

After bobbing near Balance Rock for over two hours, and ultimately throwing in the towel to end our sailing club’s annual ladies race, I was reminded why Ed and I belong to the cruising club and not a racing club. We have been married for nearly three dozen years, or as we like to joke; 68 years of wedded bliss—34 years for Ed and 34 for me. All that love went down the head over Ed’s inability to be the ubercrew I dreamt of having for the annual woman’s “fun” race, ironically named Sweethearts.
Oh brother!

Once again, as happens every year, except for the few occasions we have had the good judgment to invite a referee aboard, we have had a call-the-divorce-attorneys brawl during Sweethearts. This year was especially godawful. I had my mind set on finally ending the decade-long string of Sweethearts defeats to Diane.

Sweethearts started badly with Ed refusing to raise the main the moment I ordered him to make it so.
He insisted instead—no, he argued—he must first prep the rest of the deck, messing with of all things …
the barber haul! Like I would need THAT before my main! Hello! Surely this was insubordination, if not outright mutiny. But I let it go, even though the other boats were already jockeying for the start and the thought of a corrective keel haul flitted through my mind. After much cajoling, Ed jumped the sails smartly. Good job Ed! But, dad gum it, the flag halyard fouled. Arghhh!

“We don’t need the flags! Leave them be!” The wind began petering out as if to aid Ed on his flag freeing mission. I know he cannot sail without our flags flying nicely. I would go so far as to say he has a fouled flag phobia. I have gone up the mast solely to clear the burgee block to ease Ed’s consternation. Flag fiascos seem to be oddly common aboard Bliss. So I can see it coming. In my view we should have left the freaking burgees in the truck. Everyone knows they cause unwanted drag. So what does Ed do? He leaves the deck, goes below, fetches the boat hook, perches on the boom—boat hook in-hand—and begins wildly swiping at the now limply dangling flags, just as I had determined I must tack to catch the narrow river of wind that Diane alone was enjoying.

“Get down! NOW! Forget the %#@ halyard! Ready about! Helms alee!”

Then the fight started.

For one week you can watch my interview with Jackie Mahaney on web TV. In the interview I explain how I came to write and publish Sailing the Pink Sea, and talk about breast cancer survival. Hurry, it is only up for viewing for one week. I have to warn you though…I have scary bad hair. (It is even worse than my normal uncombed messy mop.) It may be more pleasant to listen and not watch! It also shows vividly why even men should wear makeup on TV. I still say, “I have nothing to make up for!”